


Heaven Beside You

by ekbe_vile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Blood and Torture, Bondage, Collars, Dark, Dark Dean Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Dom Dean Winchester, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Fucked Up, Gags, Genital Piercing, Hell, Kink Meme, M/M, Mental Disintegration, Mental Instability, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Rape, Seizures, Sub Castiel, Torture, Torturer Dean, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6592771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbe_vile/pseuds/ekbe_vile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted on livejournal in 2010, takes place during Season 5, inspired by a kink meme prompt:  "Zachariah plays with Castiel's mind and makes him believe that Dean turns on him, tortures and rapes him. Castiel is scarred by it and rendered selectively mute. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam have no idea what's happened."</p>
<p>This is an EXTREMELY dark fic.  Please note the tags, and if there is anything you think I should add, please do let me know!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The rorschach of blood congeals on the wall, dark and sticky in the rough, pitted surface of the bricks, but Zachariah takes no pleasure in it. It’s not the work itself which stirs the desire lying thick and lazy at the bottom of his gut––it’s the promise of what is to come, the moment when illusion becomes reality. And all it takes is a push.

He steps back to watch as Castiel struggles to get up. The alley is cold and wet, crusted with old motor oil and grime and garbage and the light overhead flickers like a fearful creature––like Castiel, weak and trembling and far too human, trapped in his pretty vessel. Zachariah can still see some of his grace, burning there behind blue eyes, but it’s dim, now, and dimmer with each passing day.

Castiel digs his fingers into the wall, bends back the nails in the struggle for purchase. They make a sick, tearing sound, but if it hurts, Castiel doesn’t show it. He glares up at Zachariah, brimming with anger and defiance and all those things no angel should feel, and for a moment Zachariah thinks it would be a mercy to just kill Castiel and get it over with.

But there will be time enough for that, later. For now, Zachariah has a plan, and Castiel’s participation is integral.

Zachariah lowers himself to one knee before Castiel. The diminished angel flinches when he reaches two fingers toward his forehead, but there’s no fighting this, and there is no fighting fate. “Sweet dreams, little brother,” Zachariah smiles, and then quick fingers press to Castiel’s skull and he sags, unconscious, against the wall.

*

There is nothingness, and then there is pain––quiet, at first, drifting somewhere high above the fog, but growing, steadily growing––and Castiel realizes, with a jolt, that this is waking. He doesn’t fight it––reaches for it, desperately, because anything is better than the nothingness, the absence of being (too certain, like death).

He opens his eyes, and Dean’s face comes into focus. “Hey,” Dean smiles. “Welcome back.”

Castiel sits up, but his head spins and he drops back onto one elbow, the other hand rushing up to cover his eyes. He’s dizzy, and everything is bright––too bright for what he knows is a poorly lit motel room, all heavy drapes and thick lamp shades.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, puts a hand to Castiel’s shoulder and pushes him back into the mattress. “You took a nasty hit.”

The memory of a wall––uneven, crumbling brick––rushes up, makes Castiel groan. He pulls away from Dean, turns on his side and feels at the back of his own head. His hair is dirty, matted. He feels along his scalp, finds an ugly bump and broken skin with bits of gravel and dirt still stuck in the crusty ridge of blood.

“Sam’s gone for supplies,” Dean is telling him. Now his voice sounds far away––now up close, thrumming in and out, right in Castiel’s ear. The whole world throbs like the membrane of a drum. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Dean says, and even though Castiel thinks he’d better stay still, he’d better just rest, for now, he doesn’t have the strength to resist.

Dean pulls Castiel to his feet, divests him of both coats and tie, and guides him to the bathroom. Castiel leans against the sink while Dean runs the water in the tub––catches a glimpse of his own face in the mirror and gives in to an unexpected shudder. His eyes are hollow with exhaustion and even Castiel can see that something is missing––some spark, some little flash of his true self that would normally shine through. Now there’s just this weariness, the bolts of red lightning through the whites, the dark, puffy circles.

His fingers tighten around the edges of the sink as Dean steps up behind him, slides strong arms around his waist and unbuttons his shirt. Castiel tries not look at their dual reflections, hangs his head and stares at his fingertips and the dark bruises where the nails bent back. He wonders how that happened––frowns, because he should remember. He shouldn’t be this forgetful.

“Hey,” Dean says again, turns his face into the side of Castiel’s head, breathes heavy in his ear and Castiel thinks this can’t be right, because Dean has issues with personal space. “You all right?”

Castiel tries to nod, but the motion disrupts his careful equilibrium and he sways back into Dean.

The hunter’s arms tighten around him, steer him toward the bath. “Thought I lost you,” Dean murmurs, his lips on Castiel’s pulse. This is wrong, he knows it’s wrong––can’t say how, because Dean looks like Dean and smells like Dean and when Castiel cranes his neck to scrape parched lips over his jaw, he tastes like Dean, too. “Not gonna lose you,” Dean growls and Castiel doesn’t know how he got his pants off so fast but he did and now one hand is on Castiel’s shoulder and one hand is on the small of his back, guiding him slow and steady down into the warm bath.

Castiel stares at Dean, stares into him as he unwraps a bar of complementary motel soap and works up a lather in his hands. Dean’s brows arch toward his hairline as he holds his hands up expectantly, saying, “Gimme your head.” So Castiel leans forward, bows his head and closes his eyes as Dean rubs his fingers through his hair, massages his scalp, picks out the bits of dirt and scabs. Castiel hisses––it stings, shouldn’t feel like anything at all but it hurts and suddenly he wants to cry out to Heaven because there’s no denying it, now. He’s falling.

Dean tells him to lean back and it’s easy to obey, easy to sink back and let Dean take his weight, easy to close his eyes and slip beneath the surface of the water. It’s peaceful, the world muffled in his ears, Dean’s hands working the soap out of his hair. He exhales through his nose, feels the rush of oxygen bubbles racing for the surface. And immediately, instinctually, his body wants to inhale. But he can’t––he’s under water––starts to sit up, but then Dean’s hands are on his shoulders, holding him down.

Castiel’s eyes fly open. The soap in the water burns, makes little rainbow circles on the surface around Dean’s face, rippling, smiling down at him. This is wrong––this is a whole galaxy of wrong that Castiel can’t even begin to catalogue because he can’t breathe. (And he’s never really had to breathe before, he knows, and this is just another sign that he’s fallen beyond Heaven’s gaze.)

He tries again, but Dean’s hands are like pillars on his shoulders. He grabs at them, digs his broken nails into the skin––flails one leg out, and then the other, and then again––kicking, splashing (and the water sounds like thunder in his ears, now, a terrible roar getting louder, louder, welling up from the depths of him) and he wonders where his strength has gone, how it is that Dean can hold him down like this, how it is that Dean can hurt him.

And it does hurt, hurts in a way that reminds him of Hell, all fire burning and voices screaming, and yet it’s inside him––it’s not heat from the outside, it’s from the inside, and he can’t help but gasp only then water’s rushing down his throat and into his lungs and that hurts, too. Now there are splotches of red and purple and black in the corners of his vision and even though he tells himself it’s his vessel, it’s not him, the flesh thinks otherwise. It clings to his consciousness in Jimmy’s absence and suddenly Castiel understands why humans so fear death.

But then Dean’s jerking him up, and there’s air––he gasps, choking on it, his hands flying out to grasp at Dean’s shoulders for balance. He shudders, hacking, coughing, desperate––can’t make his voice forms words, but when he lifts his eyes to Dean’s his face is open and hurt and questioning why.

There’s no answer. Dean grabs a fistful of his hair and jerks, dragging Castiel to his feet. An undignified cry sears his throat––he slips trying to climb out of the bath, trying to follow Dean’s insistent pull, crashes hard to the tile floor.

Dean kicks him in the chest with a steel-toed boot. The air that Castiel’s just gotten back rushes out of his lungs in a low moan. He wraps his arms around himself, tries to curl up, protect his vulnerable belly, but Dean’s got a hold of his hair again and this time he’s not letting go.

Castiel’s first coherent thought is, Demon. But Dean has the tattoo, and the Winchesters always ward their rooms, and why would a demon possess Dean when by all accounts Hell wants him straight out dead? The hunter drags Castiel out of the bathroom, into the main room. The coarse carpet chafes his knees as he tries to get his legs under him––he grasps wildly at Dean’s wrists and jerks his head, feels the hair ripped out at the roots, feels the sudden heat of blood.

“You little bitch,” Dean spits, smacks him across the face with his open hand. Then he’s straddling Castiel’s waist, pinning him to the grimy carpet, cursing. “Do you have any idea what you did to me?” he snarls––rams an elbow between Castiel’s shoulder blades when he draws his arms beneath him and tries to push up. “I’m surprised they didn’t just kill you––that’s what I’d have done––but you’re not even worth it to them, not anymore.”

He tries to speak. “Dean––”

The hunter grabs his hair again, yanks his head back at a sharp angle. “You don’t fucking talk!” Dean barks.

“Something’s wrong...this isn’t you...”

And then Dean’s hands are on his jaw, and when he opens his mouth to say more, they shove something inside––something firm and rubbery and round. Castiel tries to spit it out, but now Dean’s pulling back on a pair of straps, cinching them tight at the nape of his neck and the realization comes like a seizure. This is no spur-of-the-moment, makeshift gag. Dean planned this.

It’s too much. Castiel lets his grace uncoil inside him, feels its power spreading out through his limbs. But he has to be careful––even now, he doesn’t want to hurt Dean. He hesitates––only a moment, less than a heart beat––but it’s enough.

Something cold and rough wraps around Castiel’s throat, pulls tight and it’s like his grace has been pinched off. He tries to fight it––bucks and struggles against Dean’s weight, but suddenly that weight is so much, is more than he can bear, and he crumbles.

“That’s more like it.”

Castiel closes his eyes against the sneer in Dean’s voice. This is wrong, he thinks, this is wrong––then there’s a click, and a new weight around his neck.

“All right, let’s take a look at you.”

Dean hauls Castiel to his feet, twists his arms behind his back and holds them pinned there––manuevers the angel over to the bureau, to the mirror, and an agonized moan travels from his chest to his throat, muffled by the gag, at the sight of himself, at just how far he’s fallen.

There are binding sigils branded into the strip of leather buckled around Castiel’s throat. A sturdy lock assures it will not be removed any time soon. Dean croons in his ear, drags a hand over his chest, down his belly to cup at soft cock and balls. “The angels don’t want you, Cas,” Dean murmurs. “God doesn’t want you.” His other hand caresses Castiel’s jaw, slides down to his neck, traces the edge of the collar. “But I do.”

Castiel tries to struggle again, but there’s a wrenching pain in his shoulder as Dean twists his arm, turns him and walks him toward the table. With his grace smothered by the sigils, Castiel is no match for Dean, but he still tries––goes limp in Dean’s grasp, crashing to his knees, almost bringing Dean down with him. But it’s not enough, and the hunter drags him to his feet again, pushes him forward over the edge of the table.

Dimly, he understands what this means––understands what will happen if he lets Dean lock his wrists in the handcuffs threaded through the radiator––understands what it is to be truly helpless for the first time in his long existence. He shakes his head, No, thinking, Dean, Dean, please, Dean.

Dean steps back, gives Castiel room to catch his breath, but it’s hard with the gag in his mouth and the way his body is bent prone over the table. He tugs at his wrists, winces at the bite of the cuffs, surprised by the pain. This is wrong. Dean, he thinks, closing his eyes and concentrating, flexing his consciousness like a muscle, Dean, no––

But then there’s a snap as Dean rips his own belt from his pants––then there is the touch of leather, a slow, lazy caress, over the backs of Castiel’s thighs––across the curve of his ass––down between the cheeks, and Castiel whimpers.

“That’s it,” Dean says, his voice low and throaty with what can only be desire. “Heaven’s got no use for you, anymore. You’re useless, Castiel, do you understand?”

When Castiel doesn’t reply, Dean cracks the belt hard against his ass. He bucks under the pain, feels his grace turning inside, trying to reach out and brush away the hurt, but it hits a wall, and the searing heat remains.

“Do you understand?” Dean growls, his fingers fisted again in Castiel’s hair, and this time, Castiel nods. He can hear Dean’s grin, hear the way he licks his lips when he says, “Good,” and then the belt whips Castiel’s shoulders and there’s fire.

Dean presses up against him, lets the belt fall as he grasps at his hips. “I’m the only one who wants you now,” he breathes, hot and heavy against Castiel’s neck. “I’m the only one who still believes you’re good for something.” His hand slides between Castiel’s legs, fingers prodding at his hole. “I’m all you’ve got.”

Something buckles inside Castiel. He knows it’s true.

Dean’s finger pushes past the tight ring of muscles, doesn’t let up until its buried past the second knuckle. There’s a cry in Castiel’s throat, but it’s muted by the gag, and the strangled sound makes Dean groan. “This is all you’re good for,” Dean rasps, crooks his finger, “and I’m the only one who wants your sorry ass.”

A second finger joins the first and then, before Castiel can gasp, a third. He squeezes his eyes shut, tugs his wrists half heartedly in the cuffs.

Dean’s hand slides up Castiel’s flank––nails dig into his flesh, bear down. “Not fighting now, are you?” he purrs. “You know you deserve it.”

It hurts as much when Dean pulls his fingers out as when he first forced them in. Castiel grunts, clenches his jaw against the gag––hears the zip of Dean’s fly and the smack of spit in Dean’s palm––feels the blunt head of Dean’s cock at his entrance and the first, tentative push. Then another, cruelly unrelenting, and Castiel can’t help making a desperate noise in his throat, a sound like a wounded animal, because it’s wrong how his body opens for Dean, the pop of muscle assures him of that.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean gasps, doubles over him, fingers digging hard into the shallow dish of his hips. “So tight...my angel...”

Dean pulls out––thrusts in––Castiel’s spine arches and he’s dimly aware of the pathetic noises he’s making, just enough to hate them.

It’s only when something at last tears inside him, blood slicking up his passage, that Dean lets loose. It’s hard and fast, now, and there isn’t a single point on Castiel’s body that doesn’t hurt––not his belly where it bangs against the edge of the table, not his arms stretched almost out of their sockets, not his eyes hot with tears. “Oh, Cas,” Dean moans senselessly above him, stringing together words of want and possession. “...need you so bad...my angel...can’t ever lose you...”

And as Dean’s body jerks in the throes of orgasm, Castiel takes it, remains still and pliant beneath him, because a part of him has wanted to hear Dean say those words since he first dragged him kicking and screaming out of Hell.

*

Dean leans against the side of the Impala, jacket tugged tight about him, eyes narrowed against the fine mist dampening the night sky. “I don’t like this,” he’s saying. “Cas is never late.”

Sam sits in the passenger seat, extends a bag of chips through the open window to Dean. “Maybe he’s tied up?”

Dean shoots his brother a look, snatches the chips and eats compulsively. “What is that?” he snaps, wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Uh...” Sam gives him a blank stare. “It’s called a colloquialism.”

“Your mom’s a colloquialism.”

“Dean...you do realize you just burned yourself, right?”

“Whatever.” Dean drags his cellphone out of his pocket, hits the speed dial and presses it to his ear. “I swear,” he grumbles, “one of these days I am going to clip that bastard’s wings.”

Sam huffs. “Because nothing says ‘Thanks for being a friend,’ like angelic castration.”

But Dean isn’t listening to him anymore. “Ssh!” He holds up a hand, demanding silence as his gaze darts up and down the street. “Do you hear Norman Greenbaum?”

“‘Spirit in the Sky’ Norman Greenbaum?”

Dean’s brows arch in alarm and he drops the chips. “That’s Cas’s ringtone,” he hisses.

Dean’s already half way across the street by the time Sam’s out of the Impala. They close fast on an alleyway––dark, dirty, a narrow gap between a factory and what smells like a slaughterhouse. Dean cringes, pulls his tee shirt up to cover his mouth and nose––gun drawn, back pressed flat against the slimy brick wall––Sam takes the other side.

A glance passes between them, a wordless okay, and then they’re both turning hard and fast into the alley like street-tough cops on a drug bust.

But there’s nothing, at least not to Dean’s eyes, and a hot spasm of relief jolts through his chest. He can’t say where his fear came from, but it came on hard and fast and all he could think was Cas, Cas––the same kind of blinding panic typically reserved for his brother. He lowers his gun.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs beside him, and just like that, the fear is back. He can see, now––see through the grime and the darkness––see the figure slumped amidst the garbage cans, slumped against the crumbling brick wall––see Cas, broken before him.

“Oh, hell no,” Dean spits. He rushes forward––doesn’t hear Sam, not really, not pleading, “Cas? Castiel?” as he drops to his angel’s side. And Cas is soaked through, dirt on his face, blood matted in his hair, and he doesn’t respond when Dean shakes him, he doesn’t so much as twitch. “Somebody got the jump on him,” Dean mutters, feels quickly for other wounds, flinches at the sight of Cas’s busted off nails. He tugs one of his angel’s arms over his shoulders, shoots a pleading look to Sam. “Help me get him in the car?”

Together they wrestle Castiel to his feet, drag him out of the alley and dump him none-too-gently in the back of the Impala. Dean wipes his hand over his face, stands otherwise unmoving, unable to tear his eyes away from the angel crumpled on the back seat. Something seizes in his chest like a heart attack and Dean has to grit his teeth against the all-too real pain. Every time he sees Cas, it’s a little worse––that sense of failure, the knowledge that Castiel bet the farm on Dean and lost. This is his fault––somehow, it’s always Dean’s fault.

“Shit, Cas,” he sighs. “Who did this to you?”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel has only slept a handful of times that he knows of; he has never dreamed. From what he’s seen of Dean’s nighttime serotonin-induced misadventures, it’s not a pleasurable experience. Anything can happen, in dreams––there are no rules, no safety in logic, no stability. One’s greatest love can become one’s most feared enemy; horror, unspeakable beauty.

So Castiel thinks he might be dreaming, although why he should start now remains a mystery.

When he opens his eyes, Dean is perched on the edge of the bed beside him, a cool damp cloth in his hand. He dabs it along Castiel’s brow, smiles and brushes back his hair. “Dean––” Castiel tries, but there’s a terrible tightness in his throat.

“Ssh,” the hunter says, lays a finger over his lips, “don’t talk.” He withdraws the comforting cloth, exchanges it for a glass of water waiting on the night stand. “Here, try to drink. You’ll feel better.”

Castiel pushes himself up on his elbows, winces because his whole body aches like age and infirmity. He reaches for the glass, but Dean pushes his hand aside and presses the cup to his lips––tilts it up and Castiel closes his eyes as he drinks.

Dean takes the cup away far too soon. “Easy,” he warns, “you don’t want to make yourself sick.”

Humans need water to live, but Castiel understands that after a lengthy period of deprivation too much too soon could mean cramps, nausea and vomiting. He has to think of these things, now––has to learn to listen to this body, because he’s going to spend the rest of eternity in it.

He sinks back into the pillows with a moan.

“Ssh, it’s okay,” Dean whispers, leans close and lays a comforting palm to the side of his face. “It’s all right, you’re safe now.” 

If it sounds like a promise, it’s only because Castiel so desperately wants it to be true.

Dean traces the arc of Castiel’s eyebrow with a fingertip, drags his thumb over Castiel’s lips. “You’re so beautiful,” he says on a breath. “So beautiful, and mine.” His other hand settles, feather light, on Castiel’s belly. Then it falls lower, grasps the sensitive flesh between his legs, and Dean smiles like a predator. “I’m gonna make you come.”

And then it all comes rushing back––Castiel recognizes every ache in his body, recognizes the chafed red rings around his wrists, knows the tightness around his throat is the collar and the dark look in Dean’s eyes is lust. He jerks away, sits up and retreats against the wall, shaking his head, murmuring, “No, Dean, please––”

Dean’s hand shoots out to his jaw, cracks his head back against the wall. “You think you have a say in this?” he growls. “You have no right to say no to me.”

Castiel tries to pull his chin away, but Dean’s grip is too tight, crushing. “Please...” he gasps, but that’s as far as he gets because suddenly Dean is grabbing something from the night stand and shoving it between Castiel’s teeth. He shakes his head, struggles to break Dean’s grip, but the hunter is faster, stronger, and in an instant straps are once again cinched tight at the back of his head, digging into the soft corners of his mouth where they attach to the gag.

He flinches when Dean leans in, presses his mouth to his ear. “Don’t fucking talk,” the hunter hisses, and Castiel hangs his head.

Dean handles him like he’s a rag doll––pulls him down the length of the mattress––turns him around so that head and shoulders hang over the edge, spine bent back, blood rushing to his head making the room spin. Castiel grasps at the mattress, tries to pull himself back up, but he can’t get any leverage and then Dean’s dragging his legs up over his shoulders, holding him upside down and suspended like that, so he lets his arms fall and plants his hands on the floor and focuses on breathing.

“That’s it,” Dean rasps, “good boy,” his hand sliding down Castiel’s side, fingertips dipping between his ribs. “Fuck, you’re hot like this, all your bones standing out––” And to demonstrate, Dean’s other hand grabs at the sharp rise of his hip. “I’m gonna make you come so hard.”

His head feels thick and heavy and dark colors push in at the corners of his vision but then Dean sucks his flaccid penis into his mouth and the whole room goes white. Castiel feels his own scream battering at the back of the gag, feels the lengthening and hardening between his legs, jerks a little in Dean’s grasp and feels the hunter’s lips curve in a smile.

Dean pulls back, bites along Castiel’s inner thigh. “I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he breathes. “I swear, you’ve never felt so good.”

Then his mouth is around the head of Castiel’s cock, tongue probing at the slit, and his whole body arches backwards and up toward Dean because it’s true––nothing, nothing has ever felt like this.

Dimly, somewhere beyond the pounding of blood in his own ears, Castiel hears a door open and an, “Ah, fuck, Dean!”

Dean pulls back, lets Castiel’s cock go with a wet pop. “Hey, Sam,” he quips, “want some angel?”

Sam makes a gagging sound.

“That’s not a no,” Dean croons.

Castiel’s cock is cold and aching in the absence of Dean’s mouth. He moans, squirms a little when he sees Sam’s booted feet cross toward him. A long, painful pause follows, and Dean takes the opportunity to deliberately lick up the underside of the shaft.

Castiel’s eyes clench shut, a gasp caught in his throat. Above him, he hears Sam’s breath hitch.

“Just hurry it up, already,” Sam snaps, paces away. “I was ready to eat, like, an hour ago.”

*

The table is a graveyard of fast food wrappers, picked-over fries and soggy soda cups between them. Dean rocks back in his chair, belches; Sam pokes at a packet of ketchup.

“So I’m guessing it’s safe to say Cas didn’t get a chance to gank any demons,” Dean snorts. “Which means those ugly fuckers are still out there, reeking their ugly fucking havoc.”

Sam doesn’t look up from the ketchup. “Or they’re running straight back to Lucifer, to tell him where we are.”

“Yeah, or that.” 

“We should probably book it.”

Ordinarily, Dean would agree, but then his gaze shifts to the bed where Castiel lies on his side, the duvet tugged up to his chin, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. “I don’t know,” he shakes his head. “You think it’s okay to move him?”

Sam shrugs. “No worse than if we don’t and Lucifer shows up.”

Dean sighs. “Point.”

Sam checks out while Dean loads their bags into the Impala. When he gets back to the room, he has to deal with Castiel.

“Hey, Cas,” he says––balances on the edge of the bed beside the angel and gives his shoulder a generous shake. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty––time to go.”

He doesn’t really expect Cas to open his eyes––when the angel is out, he usually stays out. So Dean starts a little when Castiel slowly drags the lids open, squinting and blinking like the light’s too bright. Then he smiles, because obviously, Castiel waking up is a good thing. “Hey,” he says, “welcome back.”

Castiel flinches, squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away.

“Your head bothering you?” Dean asks, runs his fingers through the angel’s hair to check if the bleeding’s started again. “You took a pretty nasty hit.”

But Castiel doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move, just lies there and breathes and Dean has never been freaked out by someone breathing before but with Cas it’s just weird.

“All right, well...” Dean scratches the back of his own neck, glances around the room like maybe he’s misplaced something. “We gotta get a move on.”

Predictably, no response from Castiel. 

Dean pulls at his shoulder, tries to get him to sit up, but Castiel goes limp in his grasp. “C’mon, dude, don’t be a pain,” Dean sighs.

Castiel just slumps back into the pillows, eyes still closed, lips curled back in a faint grimace.

This, Dean realizes, is not working. “Castiel!” he snaps. “Get up, now.”

That gets a response, and something churns in Dean’s guts, some kind of dread, because Castiel doesn’t take orders from him. But he’s sitting up, now, and staring at Dean like he expects a slap, so at least he’s moving and active and that’s a start.

Dean shoves his trench coat at him and Castiel slips into it like a turtle into its shell.

*

They drive straight through the night, following an indirect, back and forth route––covering their tracks. When dawn finally cracks the horizon, Dean gives in to Sam’s persistent bitching and pulls over at the next motel they pass. He’s asleep on his feet at the check-in counter.

Castiel doesn’t speak once the entire time. He sits quietly in the back of the Impala, looking at his hands folded in his lap, occasionally picking at one of his busted nails. He jumps when the door opens and Dean, impatient, barks at him: “Inside. Now.” Castiel hurries to obey.

Inside the motel room, Sam is setting up wards. Castiel steps aside as Dean storms in behind him, slams and bolts the door. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he stays out of the way, sinking into a chair at the narrow table while Dean collapses on the first bed he sees.

“Goddamn,” Dean sighs, kicking his boots off. He sits up––grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes––glances up and catches Castiel’s gaze. “What?” he snaps.

Castiel looks down and to the side, reflexively sinking into hunched shoulders. 

“Get some sleep, Dean,” Sam says gently. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

*

It’s only when Dean’s well into R.E.M. sleep that Sam drags Castiel’s chair away from the table, Castiel still in it. “Dude, you’re filthy,” he says, his voice gentle. “Go take a shower.”

A shower sounds like a good idea––he feels the dirt and grime on his skin, the old sweat, rough and salty. He’s never noticed, before––bodies require so much maintenance. 

“Leave the door open,” Sam adds as he crosses to the bathroom, and Castiel wonders what else he doesn’t know.

For a long few moments he just stands and stares at the bath tub, the clear plastic shower curtain that will hide nothing, the mirror over the sink flickering in his peripheral vision. He mustn’t turn that way––can’t see his own face, because there’s this horrible ache behind his eyes and in his teeth and he doesn’t want to know what that looks like.

“God, you’re pathetic,” Sam laughs behind him.

Castiel lurches forward, startled, his hand shooting out to grasp the edge of the sink. He keeps his eyes down.

Now Sam sighs. “You take your clothes off, first,” he explains.

A surge of relief eases through Castiel’s muscles. Sam is his friend; Sam will help him make sense of this. He shrugs out of his trench coat, out of the suit jacket, fumbles with the buttons on his shirt.

A snort from Sam, and he steps into the bathroom, grabs at Castiel’s belt. “Seriously, dude,” he shakes his head, “pathetic.” Then he’s tugging Castiel’s pants down, dragging off his shoes and socks and throwing them through the door, out of reach. He takes both coats and the shirt, too––chucks them back into the motel room like so much garbage, and Castiel stands naked before him.

Sam looks him over, face screwed up on one side in what looks like disgust. Castiel lowers his head, can’t bear for Sam to look at him that way. “I don’t know what he sees in you,” the younger Winchester mutters, his voice low, not really meant for Castiel to hear. “I mean, look at you––” And Sam grabs his shoulders and spins him around to face the mirror.

He bites back a whimper as he sees himself, naked, dwarfed in front of Sam who folds one huge, powerful arm over his chest and traps him there as surely as the sigil-branded collar locked around his neck. 

“Look at you,” Sam says again, presses his chin down on top of Castiel’s head––reaches around and grabs at his limp dick. He jerks it once, clucks his tongue in disapproval. “Seriously. We gotta fix this.”

Then he’s gone, retrieving Dean’s bag from its place by the foot of the bed. Castiel watches him through the door––watches as he roots through it, pulls out a first aid kid, and handcuffs, and the gag.

When Sam comes back, he closes and locks the door behind him. “We gotta be quiet, okay?” he says. “We don’t want to wake up Dean.”

Sam holds the gag up expectantly––the cylinder of silicon has bite marks in it.

Castiel backs up against the sink, shakes his head, No.

Sam gives him a stern look, follows. “Castiel,” he scolds, holds the gag up right in front of his face, right in front of his lips, and Castiel’s breath hitches as he opens his mouth and takes it. Sam smiles, secures the straps at the back of his neck, strokes his shoulder comfortingly. “Good boy,” he murmurs. “Now, turn around.”

Castiel does as he’s told––blinks back the sting of tears, because now he has to face himself again in the mirror, with Sam behind him, drawing back his arms, locking his wrists in the cuffs, and somewhere inside his grace curls up and hides.

“Ssh,” Sam breathes, smoothes a huge hand down his side. “You’re doing good.”

Sam guides him down to the floor. He kneels, leans back against Sam’s chest when the younger Winchester pulls him close. He feels small and weak in Sam’s arms, suddenly aware of his own fragility. It wouldn’t take much, for Sam to kill him.

He feels Sam reach back, sees him pull the first aid kit around in front of them, flip the top back to expose needles curved for stitching flesh, scissors for trimming bandages, angry black thread. Castiel’s heart thrashes against his ribcage. His breath comes in short hot bursts through his nostrils. He watches, horrified and transfixed, as Sam threads one of the needles.

“This is going to hurt,” he breathes in Castiel’s ear, “but you want to do it for Dean, don’t you?”

Castiel lets his head roll back onto Sam’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on breathing as Sam swabs cool alcohol over his navel, and then there’s the pain––a sharp pinch that makes him jerk, a little, but isn’t nearly as bad as he expected.

“Thatta boy,” Sam murmurs, draws the thread through the hole pierced in Castiel’s belly button. Then he’s applying more alcohol to a fresh ball of cotton, and Castiel squirms a little because even if it wasn’t terrible the first time, he certainly doesn’t want to feel it again. “You have to hold still,” Sam hisses, his voice harder now, and he tightens his arm across Castiel’s chest.

Then he swabs the alcohol over the length of Castiel’s dick.

His eyes open wide––his body rebels––Castiel fights in earnest, bucking away from Sam, but the younger Winchester’s arm holds him down like a vice. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he growls, and Castiel whimpers as he sags back against his chest.

He closes his eyes again––focuses on his breath, in and out, in and out––clenches and unclenches his fists where they’re trapped in Sam’s lap. Dean, he thinks, please Dean––

Sam squeezes a fold in the loose skin and pushes the needle through fast.

Castiel screams into the gag, thrashes in Sam’s embrace––it’s a testament to the hunter’s strength that Castiel cannot break free. “Steady,” Sam says in his ear, like calming a nervous animal. “Almost done...” Then he pulls back the skin and the needle pierces Castiel’s frenulum.

The cuffs cut into his wrists and his jaw clamps down on the gag––his eyes roll back and every muscles in his body goes stiff, refuses to obey his commands.

“Holy shit, dude,” Sam gasps. “I can’t believe you just fucking came!” Sam is laughing as he pulls the thread out through the urethra. He grabs a towel and wipes up the blood––pulls the thread again, and Castiel at last opens his eyes and looks down in horror as Sam draws his softening cock up against his belly. He curls the other loose end of the thread, the one hanging from Castiel’s naval, around his finger, and then he ties it off. “Oh, yeah,” Sam moans. “Dean’s gonna love it.”

Castiel’s cock stays tied up against his stomach in a gross parody of an erection.


	3. Chapter 3

He waits at the end of Dean’s bed, head bowed, still bound and gagged. Sam left him there like a present, neatly wrapped, before he went out. “For air,” he said, and then he was gone and Castiel was alone, knees pressed into the mattress, every muscle aching with the effort of holding still. He doesn’t dare move—he doesn’t want to wake Dean, feels sick and pathetic when he imagines what the hunter will say when he gets a look at what Sam did to him.

Castiel has watched Dean sleep before, has hovered at the edges of his subconscious and, on occasion, slipped inside. Dean has never been a sound sleeper, has been tormented by nightmares most of his life. His trip to Hell certainly didn’t help, no matter how carefully Castiel pieced him back together. But now Dean is still, his breathing slow and even, his face smooth and calm, and he doesn’t stir when Castiel adjusts his weight and the whole mattress shifts. He wonders what it is that allows Dean to rest now, what has chased away the angry, cloying monsters of his subconscious. Castiel worries that he knows the answer, but his relief at seeing Dean so peaceful eases the terrible ache in his chest. Perhaps his own suffering is worthwhile, if it comforts Dean. Perhaps this is what he’s meant to do.

Dean wakes slowly, his limbs unfurling like leaves in the sun, his spine arching in a stretch. He makes a pleased noise, half moan, half sigh, then turns onto his side and hugs the pillow tight.

Castiel’s heart races. With the gag still in place, he can’t quite get enough air. Dean, he thinks, please, Dean—

The hunter’s eyes at last peel open. He rubs the sleepers from the corners with his fingers, and then focuses on Castiel. He groans, caught off guard, and his hand reflexively dips beneath the sheets to grasp at his morning wood. “Fuck, Cas,” he smiles, “aren’t you a piece of work?” Dean stretches again, lazily rolls onto his back, flips the blankets aside with one hand. He’s naked and hard and Castiel struggles to swallow. “Get on top of me.”

Castiel obeys, inches carefully up the mattress and over Dean. His thighs tremble and burn with the strain of holding him up, but then Dean grabs his hips and pushes him into position. His cock slides against the cleft of Castiel’s ass; Dean makes a sound usually reserved for a warm slice of pie.

Then he runs his finger along the thread suspending Castiel’s cock, plucks it like a guitar string and grins wide when Castiel shudders and grinds down against him. “Sam’s idea, I bet,” he chuckles. “You like it though, don’t you?”

Dean gives the thread a gentle tug, coaxes a whimper from Castiel. It’s sore—everything is sore and tender and alive—every nerve on end, tingling, ready to jump at the slightest vibration.

Dean’s smile widens. He lifts his hips, rubbing crudely against Castiel. “Yeah,” he breathes, “that’s what I thought.” He stretches, reaches for something on the night stand––a bottle of lube, Castiel realizes, then Dean is sitting up against the head board and pulling Castiel into his lap. 

He can only watch as the hunter squeezes some of the oily liquid onto his fingers––can only lean forward, obediently arching his spine and angling his pelvis so that Dean can smooth fingers over his still tender entrance, push them in and stretch. It’s a brief, superficial preparation, and then Dean pushes him back––holds him by his hips and guides him down onto his erection.

Castiel closes his eyes, works his teeth into the rubber of his gag, tries to ease himself down by locking his quadriceps, but Dean is out of patience––growls and thrusts up into him, knocking Castiel off balance, sending him pitching forward against Dean’s chest.

“Sit up,” the hunter says, pushes at his shoulders. “I wanna see you.”

He struggles to oblige, but his arms are still secured behind his back and his muscles are throbbing, burning with a low, persistent ache, and the effort it takes leaves him breathless. And Dean is moving beneath him, pumping in and out with long, deep thrusts, shifting his hips and his angle with each stroke as though searching for something.

And this time Castiel remembers to breathe, and with the lubrication it doesn’t hurt as much as the first time Dean took him, something in the way the hunter’s cock fills him up that feels almost-good, feels like he’s almost-whole.

Then Dean finds what he was looking for––presses that button hidden inside, and Castiel bucks and lurches against him, blind-sided by pleasure.

“That’s good, huh?” Dean smiles, watching him, gauging his every whimpered reaction. He thrusts again––short and shallow, this time, deliberately stroking Castiel’s prostate. “I’m the only one who can make you feel like this,” he says. “I’m the only one who can touch you. Only one who can make you come. You understand?”

Castiel trembles, his legs threatening to collapse with the effort of holding him upright, keeping him balanced on Dean’s steadily rocking hips, the thick flesh that fills and seeks the core of him. He nods. He understands.

“Good.” Dean groans, his hands moving now, grabbing, twisting, bruising. “You don’t let anybody else touch you. You’re mine––my angel.”

*

Dean sleeps well past noon, a solid six hours that he’s been needing for weeks. Waking is a slow, lazy process, warmed by the sun bleeding through moth-eaten drapes and the body pressed hot and tight against his side. Which is odd, but stranger things have happened and it feels good, so he’s not going to question it.

He opens his eyes to see Cas curled beside him, on his belly, arms tucked away under his chest and chin pressed down tight against his collar bone. He’s in his shirt sleeves, and coiled and coatless like this, he seems absurdly small. It’s that smallness that prevents Dean from kicking the angel out of bed, the same vulnerability that makes adults so fiercely protective of children and baby animals. He reaches out to cup the side of Castiel’s face, finds him flushed and sweaty with fever. Cas, he realizes, is in a bad way, suffering something worse than just a knock on the head.

Castiel stirs, making a small, pained noise, and Dean quickly withdraws his hand. “Cas?” he says, thinking his voice might help guide his angel back to consciousness. “Castiel?”

Impossibly blue eyes slit open and meet his, gaze somehow simultaneously filled with the wisdom of ages and painful naïvety. For a moment, nothing registers in the depths of those blues, but then Castiel’s breath catches in his throat and he goes stiff all over.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Dean tries to be soothing, but it’s hard when he’s so shaken by Castiel’s obvious distress. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

Castiel’s eyes are huge and open, now, and he looks unwilling to accept any comfort. Dean sighs––he hates this, hates how badly he needs Castiel to be okay. He reaches out to him again––lays his hand over Castiel’s cheek, traces his thumb over full, chapped lips. There’s a moment when he thinks Cas might jerk away from his touch, but it passes––the angel releases the breath he’s been holding and closes his eyes, nuzzling into Dean’s palm and he’s just not going to think about what it means because intimacy is not his thing and he can’t afford to have a freak out, not now, not when Sam’s bursting into the motel room and slamming and bolting the door and saying in a hoarse rasp, “Dean, we have a problem.”

*

Demons––seven, maybe eight––are sniffing around downtown, the Winchesters’ scent still fresh on the air. It won’t be long ‘til the trail leads them to this motel, to Sam and Dean and a decidedly weakened Castiel, and none of them are at their peak and even if they were, there’s at least seven demons on their heels and those are odds that Dean doesn’t bother to calculate.

So they run.

Dean manhandles Cas into the back of the Impala, eyes him a moment to make sure he stays where he’s sat, then circles around to climb in the driver’s seat. Sam throws the last of their bags in the trunk––keeps Ruby’s knife and the Colt with him, easily accessible, as he sinks down in the passenger seat. Dean casts him a sideways glance, and Sam holds it for a moment, brows furrowed and eyes wide, breath coming a little faster than it should. They’re running from a fight, running as fast and far as they can, and both brothers hate it.

They head south, skipping 95 and tearing down the back roads, the winding, potholed byways unnumbered and forgotten. It’s closing on midnight when they hit North Carolina, and there’s only one sleazy motel they can find that’ll rent them a room this late, a pay-by-the-hour in Lumberton.

Dean feels like he’s run a fucking marathon. His jaw aches from clenching his teeth so hard, his every muscle quivering like jell-o with exhaustion. He’s made long, hard drives before––his whole life, it seems, is like a strip of road burn––but this is different, this is fear and cowardice and very much not Dean Winchester’s style; this is the long, tense silence in the car interrupted by the disheartening sounds of Castiel’s fever-troubled sleep.

And Cas is getting worse. He’s burning up, flushed and sweaty, and even though he doesn’t say a word, hasn’t spoken once, Dean can see that he’s delirious. Something like panic presses thick and tight on his chest and he commandeers the bathroom the instant they’re in the new room, drags Cas along with a murmur of, “Gotta cool you down.”

Dean runs the shower, a little relieved that these sort of places never have a problem with cold water. When Cas just stands there, Dean sighs, strips him down––the angel won’t look at him the whole time, and that’s probably for the best, because he still finds it kind of weird that they woke up in the same bed, that afternoon, still worries that he didn’t really mind all that much.

Cas utters a startled gasp, seems to come back to himself a little when Dean pushes him under the cold stream of water. He hunches his shoulders and shudders, but stays where he’s been positioned, peering up at Dean through his eyelashes in a kind of quiet horror. “I know,” Dean sighs, “it sucks, but we gotta bring your temp down.”

Castiel nods, the first real indication that he’s heard and understood any of what Dean’s said. He bows his head, lowering his gaze to where the water swirls around his feet. Then, he jerks––his posture stiffens and his eyes grow wide and there’s a kind of surprise on his open mouth that has nothing to do with the cold.

“What’s wrong?” Dean straightens, too, half-reaching out as though he expects Cas to just collapse in his arms. But then his eyes follow the angel’s––see the way they fixate on his soft cock, shrinking from the cold, and suddenly things are a little too weird for him. Dean takes a step back, his face burning, his voice an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “Uh,” he says, “I’ll just...give you some privacy...” He turns toward the door, grasps at the handle––

“No, don’t go.”

Castiel’s voice stops him dead. It’s the first time the angel has spoken in days––his voice is lower and gruffer from disuse, halting with uncertainty. Dean turns back to him, looks for some kind of answer in his eyes, but Cas lowers his head and bites down on his lip as though he’s spoken out of turn.

Dean reaches into the shower, shuts off the water. Castiel is pale and shivering and Dean wraps a thin motel towel around him, wishing there were more. “What happened to you, Cas?” he murmurs, rubs the towel over Castiel’s arms. “Tell me what’s broke so I can fucking fix it already.”

There’s a long, painful pause, and for a moment Dean’s afraid that Castiel’s lapsed back into his silent monk routine. But then he looks up, meets Dean’s gaze and there’s a sick smile on his lips and tears brimming in his eyes as he says, “I think I might be losing my mind.”


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel sleeps through the night and although Dean finds the angel’s recent lapses into unconsciousness disturbing, he also hopes they will help. He knows that people deprived of sleep will begin to hallucinate, will question reality because they need to release all the serotonin building up in their brains. They need to dream, or they’ll go mad. So maybe that’s the problem––maybe there’s really nothing sinister going on, here, and it’s just chemicals building up in the vessel’s brain after nearly two years without sleep, and because Castiel’s falling he’s feeling the effects.

But Dean stops at that thought, because shit––Castiel is falling, isn’t he? When he looks down at the slender figure curled beneath the scratchy motel blankets, one fist tucked under his chin, lips slightly parted, it’s hard to see an angel––easy to forget, when Castiel’s eyes are closed and Dean can’t see all that light shining through, that he’s not human.

Sam sits at the scarred table, dragging his thumbnail along the grain of the wood. The look on his face says he’s working up some words and Dean wants to tell him to quit it, that whatever he thinks he’s gotta say it’s not fucking worth it. He sits down across from his little brother, can’t help another sideways glance to where Cas lies, still asleep, but that’s something of a blessing because he and Sam have to talk.

Sam speaks first, lays his hands flat on the table and pushes his words out in a low, quick breath. “So what do we know?”

Dean chews his lip, glances up to the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling. “He got hit in the head, but there’s no concussion,” he thinks aloud. “He has a fever. He sleeps like, eighteen hours a day...”

“He doesn’t talk,” Sam adds helpfully. “At all.”

Something in Sam’s tone makes Dean angry. He goes on the defensive, quick to make excuses for Castiel’s behavior, knows they’re lame but doesn’t care, because Cas is sick and needs protecting, even if it’s from Sam. “You’d get quiet, too, if you couldn’t tell what was real,” he snaps.

It’s supposed to be a slap on the wrist, but Sam gets this stunned look on his face. He zones out for a full minute, and Dean’s about to give him a real smack, when he shakes himself. “Dean,” he whispers, “could it be a wraith?”

“What, like that bitch at the funny farm?”

Now Sam is getting excited the way he does whenever he’s come upon what he thinks is an obvious solution. “It makes perfect sense,” he says. “The wraith catches Cas off guard, infects him and then saves him for later.”

“And while Cas is marinating, we come along and raid the fridge.” Dean nods, hating how easily the pieces fall into place. “So, he’s not in any immediate danger––”

“But he’s not going to get any better,” Sam finishes for him. “Not until we kill that wraith.”

*

Castiel stands naked in front of the mirror, examines his own reflection––the long, lean lines of his torso––the sharp rise of hipbones––the indistinct line of muscles across his shoulders. He has never really looked, before––has never evaluated his vessel, now his body, in comparison to others. Has never held himself to those kinds of standards. But now he looks at himself, and he sees all the ways that his body is different from Dean’s, different from Sam’s––how it’s small and slender and almost feminine, weak and ill-equipped for the violent lifestyle of a hunter. And he thinks that maybe this is something Dean has known all along, and so it makes a kind of sense that he should treat Castiel the way he has these past few days.

But Castiel’s hand falls to his belly, his thumb dips into his navel, and there’s no sign that he was pierced there, nor is there anything further down––no sign that Sam strung him up like a puppet for Dean’s amusement. He’s not wearing the collar, now, so it makes sense that his grace would have healed his body. But he can still feel the collar––still feel the weight of it, the chafe of the leather, the way he struggled to swallow against it. And a part of him is quietly awed, because he knows he will feel its weight forever.

There’s a knock at the door, and then Dean’s voice: “Come on, Cas, let’s grab some coffee before we hit the road.”

The purpose of coffee is to shrug off fatigue, to promote wakefulness, but all Cas wants now is to lie down, to close his eyes and be away in that nonexistence of sleep. It’s safe and quiet, there, and his thoughts go away with the world.

But he gets dressed and follows Dean out into the cool morning, because Dean says a walk will do him good and there’s nothing out here in the middle of nowhere, just a road and the motel and a gas station and an old railroad car diner. Frost bends the tips of the tall grass alongside the road and where the gravel’s torn up the earth is thick and red like clay. Castiel trails along after Dean as he makes for the diner. Every ten paces or so Dean slows, glances back to make sure Castiel is still with him. And it’s this gesture that makes Castiel feel oddly inadequate, makes him duck his head and hurry to catch up. He knows, now, what will happen if he falls too far behind.

He waits outside while Dean orders coffee and donuts to go. Castiel sits on the curb, his legs stretched out long and bowed before him, his busted fingernails black against the concrete. His breath mists the air before him; he feels the morning chill in his sinuses, on the tips of his eyelashes, in the ache of his wrists. He slips his hands into his coat pockets, and that’s when he finds it.

Dean’s amulet, his “God EMF.” The cord slips through his fingers, the pendant itself warm in his palm. He’s fairly certain the figure is Babylonian. Or maybe Sumerian. Or Hebrew, from the period of captivity. He’s not sure, anymore––certainties now feel fleeting and intangible and even language, it seems, has lost its physicality.

Dean comes out of the diner and settles beside him on the curb. He offers Castiel a coffee, but he shakes his head in silent decline. Dean sighs, sips from his own cup and stares off across the road at the slumped shape of their motel.

Castiel holds the amulet out to Dean. 

For a moment the hunter doesn’t notice, but then he sees the little figure dangling from Castiel’s hand, and his face pales. “What are you doing?” he asks, hoarse.

Castiel thinks it’s pretty obvious. He looks at the ground, thrusts the amulet toward Dean.

There’s a long moment when nothing happens, and then Dean pulls the cord from Castiel’s fingers. He lets his hand fall, folds it with the other in his lap, and keeps on his analysis of the gravel beneath his feet. So he’s surprised, when Dean touches him––grabs him by the chin and turns his face up, forces him to make eye contact.

And then Dean slips the cord over Castiel’s head, lets the amulet fall against his collar bone, draws his shirt closed protectively. His hand lingers, pressing down on the amulet, pressing down on Castiel’s heart. “I gave this to you for a reason,” he says slowly, his voice low and deliberate. “Don’t you dare give it back until you’re done.”

There’s a sudden warmth in Castiel’s chest, a pulse of relief, and he nods his understanding.

But Dean’s still holding his gaze, still looking into him. “What are you seeing?” he asks.

It takes Castiel a moment to figure out what he means, and when he does, he dare not reply––bows his head and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shake off a new emotion, searing shame.

He hears Dean’s breath hitch, and then the hunter is reaching out again and grabbing him by the back of the neck––forcing his face up, forcing his gaze, his thumb rubbing hard, possessive circles in Castiel’s cheek. He sinks toward Dean, sinks into the thrumming circle of his presence, feels the prickle of human electricity that pours off him. 

And then Dean’s pulling his face close, pressing their lips together hard and fast and all too brief, too fearful. Their foreheads bump together, their noses slotted against each other. Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Whatever it is,” he whispers, “I’m going to fix it. So just ride it out, okay? For me. Ride it out.”

*

They drive west, heading for the starting point, that grimy alley where it all began, but the brothers won’t tell Castiel why, and he’s glad for that. He’s glad they haven’t tried to tell him what’s real and what isn’t––how would they know? Perhaps the pain and humiliation is not the nightmare––perhaps the warm press of Dean’s lips against his is the dream.

They stop in Edwardsville, Illinois, beneath the trees and the long shadows of dusk. Castiel waits outside beside the Impala while the brothers check into their room––he waits, and he turns his face into the wind, and the cool taste of it comforts him. For a moment he thinks it’s poetic, like the divine proportions of the universe, that they have come so close to another beginning. How far is Pontiac? he wonders. Are Amelia and Claire still there, still in that same house, or have they moved on, left their home and Jimmy behind? A sudden, sick feeling pushes up from the bottom of his gut, and Castiel closes his eyes, grasps reflexively at Dean’s amulet and presses it to his lips.

Once they’re set up in the motel room, Dean leaves him and Sam to go pick up dinner. Sam sits at the table with his laptop, frowns and “hmms” as he searches for something. He’s ignoring Castiel––doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to risk catching a glimpse of his suffering, and Castiel can’t blame him. He understands the need to shield oneself.

So he sits at the end of the bed and says nothing, stares at nothing, all the while dragging Dean’s amulet back and forth over his dry lower lip. He resists the urge to put it in his mouth, to pull the cord tight against his cheeks––his jaw locks and he makes a conscious effort not to grind his teeth. He wishes he had something to bite down on, something to receive all the tension pulsing in his body. Something, he realizes with a dull horror, like that gag.

He shakes that thought off, but when he comes back to himself he realizes that Sam is staring at him. “So,” the younger Winchester says, “now you’re wearing it?”

For a moment he doesn’t know what Sam means, but then he realizes he still has the amulet around his neck, between his fingers, against his lips. He lowers it respectfully, tucks it beneath his shirt.

Sam stands abruptly, crosses the room in two long strides and grabs Castiel by his collar––drags him to his feet––closes one fist around the amulet and pulls until the cord cuts into his neck. He towers over Castiel, his shoulders broad and rolled forward to cast him in shadow. “I gave this to him,” he growls, his face bent down to blow a hot, angry breath over Castiel’s ear. “It was meant for our father, but I gave it to him.”

Castiel makes no effort to break Sam’s hold on him, but this only serves to further ignite the hunter’s temper. He pushes Castiel backwards, sends him sprawling across the bed, descends on him like a thunderstorm. Sam grabs at the folds of Castiel’s coat, at the buttons of his shirt, rips them both open to bare the pale canvas of Castiel’s chest. And he knows that look in Sam’s eyes as he bends down and sinks his teeth into the curve of Castiel’s neck, the thick tendons where his shoulder begins––knows that Sam wants to punish him, hurt him, take from him.

And he remembers what Dean told him, as they writhed in each other’s arms––no one else is allowed to touch him, no one but Dean, and a sudden panic makes Castiel jerk and try to push Sam away.

But Sam is bigger than him, stronger than him, and it’s so easy for him to grab Castiel by the arms and flip him over onto his belly. He tries to gain some leverage, tries to drag his legs up beneath him, but that only makes it easier for Sam to rip his belt off, rip his pants down over his hips.

“Sam,” Castiel gasps, his voice a hoarse breath. “Sam, don’t––Dean said––”

But Sam won’t let him say more––grabs a fistful of his hair and presses his face down into the mattress, cutting off his voice, cutting off his air. And it’s not Sam’s long, hard finger breaching his entrance that hurts, it’s the knowledge that no one except Dean is allowed to touch him like that.

Castiel reaches for his grace––he’ll only use a little, just enough to stop this. He still doesn’t want to hurt Sam. But then his consciousness hits a wall, his grace caged on the other side, at the same time that Sam shoves into him dry and unprepared. Castiel gasps––he knows he’s not wearing the collar, but somehow he can still feel its weight. Somehow, it’s still working on him. And he’s helpless beneath Sam’s heavy body, beneath the long, agonizing strokes of Sam’s pleasure.

Dean, he thinks, bites down on a fold in the duvet, I tried, I’m so sorry, I tried...

Across the room the door bangs open, and a mix of relief and despair at being caught at his weakest sweeps through Castiel. Then Dean is shouting, grabbing Sam and dragging him off Castiel, throwing him to the ground and kicking him hard.

“Sam, what the fuck?!” Dean shouts.

Castiel doesn’t turn to watch their exchange––he inches up the mattress, grabs at his pants and tries to pull them back up over his hips. “Dean, would you just let me explain?” Sam is saying, but his brother’s not hearing it.

“Explain what, your cock up his ass?” Dean snaps. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Dean––”

“Get out. Take a walk. I can’t look at you, right now.”

There’s a moment of silence, then the sound of the door opening and closing again, and Dean’s heavy sigh in his brother’s absence.

Castiel at last rolls onto his back, clutching his clothes to him, struggling to catch his breath. There’s blood between his legs, wet and warm, and he’s going to have to get a new pair of pants because he’s too exhausted to just “mojo” it away. But Dean stares at him, lips turned down in a hard frown, nostrils flared with the heat of rage. 

Castiel opens his mouth, starts to say, “Thank you,” but Dean strikes him across the face with an open hand before he can get the words out.

“You fucking slut,” Dean spits as Castiel reels. “I trusted you––I gave you my fucking heart, and this is how you repay me?” He hits Castiel again––the room spins, colors blur––grabs Castiel by his hair and drags him off the bed. “You’re mine, Cas,” he growls, dumps him whimpering on the floor, “and if you don’t know it, well, I’ll make sure everyone else does.”

Castiel tries to push himself up. The carpet is worn thin, coarse with dirt and gravel. It bites into his palms, burns, but then Dean kneels before him and jerks his chin up with one hand, loops the collar tight around his throat with the other. And now the thick piece of leather has a new function––does so much more than snuff Castiel’s grace when Dean hooks a leash to its heavy D-ring, tugs on it, forces him to kneel at the hunter’s feet.

Dean pulls the leash tight, leans down and uses it to pull Castiel’s face close to his. “From now on,” he says, “I ain’t letting you outta my sight.”


	5. Chapter 5

Between a couple bags of fast food, a cardboard tray of sodas and a six pack of beer, Dean has a hell of a time getting the door open. He shouts for Sam to let him in, but there’s no response. Dean’s stomach falls fast. Maybe Sam’s sleeping, he thinks. Or maybe he’s plugged into his iPod. But what about Castiel? Dean all but throws the food aside in his hurry to jam his key into the lock and shoulder the door open.

He stops short––doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing––isn’t sure he wants to. Sam's standing at the end of the bed, every muscle coiled and ready for action, but holding back, looking down to where Castiel lies on the bed. And the angel's entire body is taut, bent at the wrong angles. And Cas is fighting––fighting something Dean can't see, like grappling with the touch of Death, but there's a horrible, uncontrolled quality to the way his spine arches up off the mattress.

And then, Dean gets it––really fucking gets it––and he throws the food aside because even though he knows what a seizure looks like, it's never not a shock to see one. He launches himself at the bed, but Sam grabs his shoulder, stops him like a wall.

"Let it happen," Sam says, voice not quite as firm as his grip. "There's nothing we can do."

Dean shakes his brother off, won't let those words be true. He climbs on the bed beside Castiel's head––reaches in quick and loosens his tie––desperately wants to lay his hands over Castiel's cheeks and hold him still, soothe away the riptide of electricity jolting his brain. But there's nothing more he can do, only watch, and he owes Cas that much, that vigilance and protection, and when this is over he thinks he'll wrap his arms around his angel and keep him safe forever.

Cas's eyes are rolled back, only a sliver of blue visible at the edge. Foam’s building up at the corners of his mouth and Dean takes a second to wipe it away with his sleeve. “How long has he been like this?” he asks, not bothering to look up at his brother. He’s afraid to take his eyes off Cas, afraid he might miss something.

“I don’t know,” Sam shakes his head, “a minute? He went down right before you got here––”

Suddenly Castiel’s body sags, all the tension pouring out of it. His eyelids drop shut and his head lolls to the side and Dean leans back, takes a moment to just breathe.

Sam grimaces, rubs at the back of his neck. “Shit,” he mutters. “You got an extra pair of jeans?” When Dean gives him a look, Sam nods to Castiel’s crotch, the dark patch spreading across the front of his pants.

Dean flops back on the pillows, one hand rubbing fingers into his forehead, fighting to ward off a migraine. “Yeah, I do,” he mutters. “Shit.”

*

They call Bobby, because they always call Bobby whenever they run into a wall. But he only confirms what Sam and Dean already know––seizures are not symptoms of a wraith’s handiwork. Which leaves them exactly where they started, which is nowhere, and Castiel’s down for the count, looking small and sickly in Dean’s clothes.

“Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way,” Sam tries. “I mean, we’ve been treating this like it’s the result of an outside attack, but what if it’s not? What if it’s something happening inside Castiel?”

Dean doesn’t want to hear it, still knows he has to––he cracks open another beer. “Explain?”

Sam breathes deep, adjusts his weight in his chair. “What if this is just...part of the process?” he suggests. “What if this is part of the fall?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about it––it’s not an option. “You saw him in that alley––somebody attacked him––”

“And he was unable to defend himself,” Sam cuts him off, “because he’s falling.”

Dean doesn’t have a retort. He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, rubs at the corners of his eyes. “Let’s get some sleep,” he mutters. “Tomorrow’s gonna be another long-assed drive.”

*

Dean is in Hell.

Here, everything is cast in shades of blood and fire, everything except Castiel’s eyes, staring back at him. They glisten with tears, too bright to look at directly, and Dean promises himself that next time, he will dig them out with his bare hands––next time, he will swallow them whole, so that when he remakes the angel’s body it won’t be able to stare at him that way.

But that is not part of the plan, not while he has the angel suspended by his wrists, arms strung high above his head. Every rib stands out as Castiel struggles to breathe. A thin sheen of sweat makes pale flesh glow. Castiel’s lips shape Dean’s name, but cannot give it voice. The angel gave up begging long ago.

“I know there’s more to you,” Dean says as he circles his subject. He stops behind Castiel, trails fingertips ever so gently between quivering shoulder blades. “When I’m done with you, Castiel, there won’t be a single part of you I haven’t touched...nothing I haven’t cut away...nothing I haven’t stapled back together.”

He digs his fingers in under Castiel’s shoulder blades, receives a gasp and shudder when he punctures flesh, sinks through muscle. And now it seems Castiel realizes Dean’s intention, and he’s shaking his head and reverted to begging and trying to pull away even as Dean oh-so-carefully coaxes the angel’s wings out into the open.

They seem small and bony, at first, soaked in blood and placenta like a newly hatched chick. Dean unfolds Castiel’s wings, wipes away the goo––stretches them out and lets the fires of Hell dry the iridescent black feathers.

And once unfurled, those wings are everything Dean dreamed they would be––huge, powerful things that beat wildly against the air. Dean ducks, moves back in front of Castiel so the wings can’t sweep him away. The chains hold the rest of the angel bound, and after a while he settles, draws his wings in and folds them over his back as he hangs his head.

And if Dean has learned one thing in Hell, it is patience. So he waits until the angel has worn himself out, and only then does he turn back to his instrument table––ghosts fingertips over knives and razors, dowels and hooks. Each tool has its own special pain, and he knows them all so very, very well.

At last, Dean makes his selection, but he’s careful to hide it from Castiel. He wants it to be a surprise, revels in the angel’s fearful anticipation as he backs him up against a splintered wooden wall. Dean loves the mechanics of Hell––loves how he can bend and mold space to his will, so that where before Castiel hung suspended from the nonexistent ceiling, now he’s shackled to the wall.

And he stretches his wings behind him, tries to find some room for them to occupy, but they are trapped behind him and the uneven planks of wood. Dean grabs the one on the left, teases it out, forcing it to open for him––then he grabs his weapon of choice, presses the ice pick (which has never been used for ice) into the joint of the wing and pounds it through flesh and bone.

Castiel screams, tries to pull his wing away, but Dean has nailed it to the wall, stretched out on display like a butteryfly’s. Blood runs thick and bright through the feathers, and Dean pauses a moment to admire his work before he moves to the other side, to finish the job.

*

Dean awakes with a jolt, forcefully ripping himself from the nightmare. It was vivid––too vivid, as are all his dreams of Hell––and as he glances down to where Castiel lies curled in a tight ball beside him, he remembers how badly he wanted to hurt the angel.

Castiel’s shaking uncontrollably, now, and he hugs his arms tightly around his body, his hands clutching helplessly at his shoulder blades.

A terrible cold creeps over Dean. That’s the exact same spot he touched in the dream, the same flesh he tore open, from which he drew Castiel’s wings to break and abuse––

But Castiel doesn’t wake, just snuggles closer to Dean and thank whatever god is listening that Sam’s snoring away in the other bed, sound asleep, because Dean’s cock is painfully hard and he needs to do something about it right-the-fuck-now.

Dean wonders why he doesn’t get up, why he doesn’t go shut himself in the bathroom so he can take care of his problem with brutal efficiency. But he doesn’t really want to, resents the sickness of his desire, wants to punish himself for it. So he stays where he is, sprawled on his back, Castiel’s warm body beside him a constant reminder that it’s wrong to want the things he does, even subconsciously.

Dean’s hand slides down his cock, on the outside of his boxers. There’s already a damp spot of pre cum and he hates himself for this, closes his eyes and fondles his balls quickly though the cloth before pulling his hand away.

But it has a mind of its own, and now it’s slipping beneath the waist band of his boxers and the first brush to over-sensitized flesh makes him groan, makes him remember the way Castiel’s skin gave so easily beneath his hand in the Hell-dream. And Dean is harder than he’s been in ages, maybe harder than he’s ever been, and his own disgust just makes it worse.

He touches lightly, tentatively, still resisting the urge to just grab and jerk hard. He shivers, rubs his thumb over the head, into the slit. If he’s going to do this, he’s gotta be fast. Already he feels it won’t take much to push him over the edge, but he has to be sure, feels Castiel burning up beside him and so steals a quick, lustful glance at his angel’s sleeping face.

But Cas isn’t sleeping. His eyes are open and a little unfocused with the effort of waking, but the way they slide down Dean’s body, they know his intention. “Cas, I’m sorry––” Dean starts, but then his angel lays two fingers over his lips, silencing him.

Then Cas is pushing aside the blanket, bowing his head to kiss tenderly along Dean’s ribs, and Dean’s cock jumps with urgent need. Castiel doesn’t ignore it––wraps his hand around the shaft and lowers his mouth over the head before Dean can spit out his protest.

Dean’s hips buck up against his will, force his cock deep into Castiel’s throat. The angel makes a soft, choking noise––his throat muscles contract around the head as its quick strokes trigger his gag reflex––but Dean doesn’t want to be gentle, just wants this to be over. And so he takes––knots his fingers in black, sleep-mussed hair and holds his angel’s head steady as he fucks his mouth.

Dean has wanted and dreaded this for so long, and when his orgasm overtakes him it’s like the fires of Hell licking at his soul. Then it’s over, and he rolls away from Castiel and struggles to bury it.

*

When Dean goes out for coffee in the morning he doesn’t ask Castiel to come with him, can’t even bring himself to look at the angel for long. And Cas isn’t exactly trying to be sociable, either, just sits there at the end of the bed wearing a pair of Dean’s jeans and an oversized hoody (one of Sam’s from Stanford), staring at a yellow stain on the wall.

And Dean needs room to breathe, room to let the shame burn off, so he lingers a little longer than he should, blowing the steam off the surface of his coffee and toeing at idly at the gravel along the curb. The air is still cold, this early, and his breath coils impatiently around him, trying to hurry him back inside to his brother and Cas...

Oh, God––Cas. He tries not to think about what happened, tries to brush away the memory of Cas’s mouth on his cock (but it keeps coming back) and the nightmare of Hell (too familiar, like a dream he’s had before) and he has to sit down, right there on the curb, because like the Apocalypse, this is too fucking big...or, maybe not too big, but definitely complicated, with what’s happening to Cas mixing up with the dangerous compulsions Dean’s been fighting since he first woke up in his own grave, visceral wants and needs that are harder to put aside every day. No one can afford to be vulnerable around him, to be weak, because he doesn’t think he can stop himself, anymore. There’s more of Hell in Dean than anyone can know.

He looks up from the pavement, stares off across the parking lot, and that’s when he sees them––three men in suits, pretending this is their normal corporate hang out, slipping into the coffee shop although Dean has a feeling they won’t be ordering. Three guys in suits like fucking Men In Black and Dean would be ready to get his conspiracy theory on if he hadn’t been running from demons the past three days.

Dean stands, stretches, tries for nonchalant as he tosses his empty cup in the trash and meanders back to their room, but the hand at the small of his back is checking to make sure he remembered his gun.

Sam’s just getting out of the shower when Dean shuts and bolts the door behind him, and Cas is sitting exactly where Dean left him, still staring at that yellow stain like he expects God to jump out of it.

“Those guys who were following us,” Dean asks, “are you sure they were demons?”

Sam gives him a snort. “Uh, yeah, pretty sure.”

“I need you to be more than ‘pretty sure,’” Dean growls, takes a step toward his brother, “because there’s three of ‘em out there and I don’t want to bring a knife to a gun fight.”

Sam’s pulling on his pants, but the tone of Dean’s voice makes him stop everything and give his brother another long, heavy look. “You think they could be angels?” he murmurs, like he’s afraid Cas will hear him.

But he shouldn’t worry, because when Dean’s gaze shifts to Castiel, he still hasn’t moved or blinked and is probably only breathing because it’s a reflex. “Whoever they are,” Dean sighs, “I think they’re here to collect.”


	6. Chapter 6

They need to get the hell out of Dodge like, yesterday, and so Sam gets their shit together while Dean makes yet another attempt to snap Castiel out of whatever trauma-trance has him staring at the wall like a vegetable.

“Cas, come on,” he pleads, shakes the angel by his shoulders. “We need you at least at thirty percent, right now.”

Castiel doesn’t move, but his eyes do shift, flicker toward Dean’s face––fix on something on his cheek, maybe a freckle, but don’t meet Dean’s desperate look. But it’s something.

“Can you do that for me, Cas?” Dean pleads––glances over his shoulder to see what Sam’s doing, and he’s throwing stuff into a duffel with his back toward the scene, so Dean goes for it, lays his hand over Castiel’s cheek. “Thirty percent, dude, that’s all I’m asking,” he whispers. His other hand slides up, pushes fingers through Castiel’s unruly hair as Dean leans close, forcing eye contact, foreheads bumping together. “Do it for me, Cas.”

He stays like that for a moment, fighting the tightness in his chest, staring like he’s trying to reach into Castiel through his eyes and drag him back out the same way.

Sam clears his throat. “Dean,” he says. “We’ve gotta go.”

And right now, Dean doesn’t even care that his brother has seen him in what is undoubtedly a compromising position. He pulls away, sniffs hard and wipes the back of his hand under his nose. “Yeah,” he says, “all right,” but nothing will be all right until he has Cas back.

Sam heads out to the car first, crouched and fast, as stealthy as someone his size can be. He doesn’t bother with the trunk––throws their bags into the passenger seat and then drops in on the driver’s side, still slouched low, still trying to keep out of sight. He jams the key in the ignition––takes a breath, waits an agonizing beat––then turns it.

The engine roars to life, and that’s Dean’s cue. He bundles Cas into his arms and makes a dash for the car, trying to stay focused––trying to only see his goal, the car, the door to the backseat, safety––

––but Sam is revving the engine, and Dean dares a glance up, across the parking lot to the coffee shop, just in time to see the first of the repo angels or demons or whoever the hell they are rushing through the front door, rushing toward the Impala.

“Shit,” Dean hisses––is closer by a good ten yards, but he’s got Cas in his arms and the going is awkward, clumsy, he can’t lift his legs high enough and his muscles burn with the strain and his grip under Castiel’s knees is slipping––

––and the repo men are closing on the car fast, sprinting full speed like fucking greyhounds, and Dean releases a ragged breath of “shit, fuck, son-of-a-bitch” because they’re going to get to reach the car before him.

Except then a shotgun round blasts one of the three square in the chest, sends him flying backwards, and Sam’s leaning out the driver’s side window, the rifle tucked under his chin as he shucks the spent shell.

And it’s enough––just by a heartbeat, and Dean throws himself and Cas into the backseat, doesn’t even get a chance to lean over and pull the door shut before Sam’s unloading the last shot into a second black-suited douche and simultaneously punching the gas. And without his hands on the wheel, the Impala fishtails a little as it peels out, but now they’re moving and Sam throws aside the gun and grabs the wheel and Dean climbs over Cas to grab the door, pulling it shut.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean gasps, a little alarmed by his own breathlessness as he watches the men in black through the rear window––watches the two that Sam shot get up and shake it off like it was nothing, and the way they stare after the Impala, Dean gets the feeling they’re staring right at him and he drops down next to Cas, out of sight.

“Well, that was fun,” Sam chokes on a laugh in the front seat as they tear out onto the main drag. “Let’s never do it again.”

Dean laughs, too, soft and breathless in the back of his throat. For once, he and Sammy are on the same page.

Then there’s the squeal of tires and Dean lifts his head just in time to see a black Chrysler veer onto the road behind them, accelerating fast. “Oh, fuck me,” Dean mutters. “Hey, Sam––we’ve got company.”

Sam’s eyes dart to the rearview mirror, focus on the car closing on their tail. “What the hell?” he says.

Dean’s still staring out the back window, eyes getting bigger as he wishes he was the one in the driver seat because if anyone is going to take the Impala on a high speed chase, it should be him. But that doesn’t really seem to be an option. “Any time, now,” Dean suggests, his voice rising at the end as the Chrysler continues to gain on them.

Sam snaps back to it––throws the Impala into a lower gear and hits the gas. The engine roars, working harder in the lower gear, and they pull ahead even as the Chrysler comes up and rams their bumper.

The car jolts, pulls ahead, and Dean throws up two middle fingers to the black-suited drivers in the Chrysler. Then he turns back to the front. “Seriously, Sammy, can we lose these fuckheads already?”

“Easier said than done, Dean.”

And then he lets his gaze shift out the window, sweep the surrounding landscape, and he realizes they are totally fucked. The road is straight, runs through fields––acres and acres of flat, faceless fields. There are no sharp turns, no side roads or thickets of buildings where they could lose the Chrysler.

Dean looks back out the rear window again, sees that their pursuers have dropped behind, but are still keeping pace. “Come on, Sammy,” Dean says, his voice low and impatient, “don’t be afraid to push her a little––”

“I am fucking pushing!” Sam snaps. 

The fields come into focus around them, no longer blurred and indistinguishable by speed, and Dean gets a sudden sick feeling in his gut. “Sam, we’re slowing down,” he says. “Why are we slowing down?”

“I don’t know! The speedometer’s freaking...it’s gone all the way around, and come back out the other side...”

Dean looks back, but the Chrysler isn’t catching up, it’s just following at a safe distance, matching their decreasing speed. “Sam––” he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say, because if those repo bastards are fucking with the Impala, what are they supposed to do about it?

Castiel moves suddenly beside Dean, twisting to look out the back window with him, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin because he half forgot the angel was there. Cas looks oddly innocent, peaking over the headrest like that, eyes wide and glistening.

“Cas!” Dean says, grabs at his arm. “Is there a sigil or something you could put on the car, you know, so that those angels or demons or whoever can’t work their mojo on it?”

But Cas just stares at Dean, his brow furrowed and his head tilted to the side, and the gesture that Dean once found so endearing has never been more infuriating.

“Great,” Dean mutters, “that’s incredibly unhelpful.”

“We’re down to 50, Dean,” Sam calls his attention back.

“What the hell is this, Speed 3?” he barks. “Fuck!” Then he’s leaning into the front seat and grabbing Sam’s shotgun and a box of shells, settling into the back to reload. “All right, so listen––maybe we can surprise these a-holes. You stop the car and pop the trunk real fast, I’ll jump out and grab what I can out of the trunk––”

“Dean––”

But he won’t let Sam finish. “You got a better idea?”

When the Impala drops to 35, Sam slams on the brakes and Dean jumps out before the car has even stopped moving.

He stumbles, but manages to keep his feet under him––whirls around to the back of the car and jerks the trunk open––casts a quick glance over his shoulder when he hears the Chrysler brake.

They stop fifty yards back. The doors open, and the three men in black climb out, begin the slow, menacing walk up the road to the Impala.

Dean curses, rips aside the false bottom in the trunk and starts grabbing at rock salt and holy oil and anything else he can get his hands on because he’s still not entirely sure what they’re up against.

But then Castiel’s beside him and it’s like the whole world stops. Cas touches Dean’s arm, bunching Dean’s shirt under his fingers.

“Cas,” Dean growls, “get back in the car.” And that’s an absurd thought, him trying to protect an angel, who for all intents and purposes is consciousness embedded in energy and power.

Castiel looks up at him, fixes that arctic blue gaze on Dean’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, like it hurts to raise his voice. 

Then Castiel moves away from Dean, starts toward the men in black, and he looks so ridiculously small in Sam’s sweatshirt and Dean’s low-slung jeans that Dean wants to just grab him, throw him over his shoulder and carry him to safety. His heart races with the sudden need to be by Castiel’s side, to feel his heat and––

“Dean!” Sam comes out of nowhere, grabs his brother and holds him back while Castiel continues on, alone.

“No!” Dean struggles to shake Sam off. “He can’t just give up––”

“That’s not our choice to make.”

So Dean looks on helplessly as Castiel walks away from him, leaves him behind, and really he should have seen it coming because it’s always the same with the people he lo––

He sees the first black-suited douche draw a dagger, and even from this distance sees that it’s one of those fucking angel-killing lobotomy spikes. He starts to yell to Cas, to call him back or at least warn him, but he doesn’t get the chance because what he now knows is definitely an angel moves too fucking fast.

He comes at Cas in a fury, dagger raised high, poised to shatter Castiel’s breast bone, puncture his heart and his grace.

Castiel lifts a hand to deflect the blow, and the dagger pierces his palm like a railroad spike. Dean sees the flash of sunlight on metal and the spray of blood and he lifts the shotgun and aims because he can’t just fucking stand there.

Cas steps back, taking the dagger with him––rips it out of his hand and turns it against his attacker with merciless precision.

And Dean has never seen anything like it, not even that time Cas got the jump on Zachariah. Maybe because he doesn’t have the trench coat, now, and Dean can actually see how Cas moves, sleek and graceful and deadly when he drives the dagger through the other angel’s throat.

There’s that familiar flash of light, and before it has fully dissipated, there’s another. Dean ducks, raises his arm to shield his eyes while Sam turns away. When Dean can see again, there’s only one of the repo angels left standing, the others fallen lifeless at Castiel’s feet.

The other angel doesn’t stand a chance, not when he’s still new to Earth and his vessel. He comes at Castiel with his own dagger drawn, but Cas has had almost two years to learn Jimmy’s body, to understand its mechanics and use it to his utmost advantage.

Cas steps aside, easily dodging the blow, and follows through with one of his own. The dagger plunges between the other angel’s shoulders, and again there’s that light, but this time Dean doesn’t look away and he sees how Castiel twists the blade deeper into the wound like he’s enjoying it.

Then it’s over, and a stillness like dawn settles over the fields and Dean realizes just how alone they are out on this road.

Castiel drops the dagger, turns back and takes one step, two steps toward the Impala. On the third he crashes to his knees and slumps forward, forehead bowed to the pavement.

“Cas!” Dean shouts, and there’s no fucking way Sam’s holding him back.

He runs to his angel’s side, skids to a halt and doesn’t think about Sam watching, just pulls Castiel into his arms and cradles his slender, trembling body against his own.

Blood dribbles from Castiel’s nose, over his lips and into his mouth. He weakly spits it out, looks down, and Dean follows his gaze to Castiel’s wounded hand. Not quite curled into a fist, stiff, more like a claw, blood pumps out of the hole in his palm to match his racing pulse.

Dean can’t look at it for long. It’s just a little too Stigmata for him to handle. “Cas?” he murmurs, strokes a hand over dark hair.

Castiel flinches away from the touch like he expects to be hit, but Dean doesn’t let him get far. He places a quick, reassuring kiss to the side of Castiel’s head as he gathers him into his arms. “You did good, Cas,” he whispers, carrying his friend back to the Impala, and the gentle praise makes Castiel sigh and relax against him.

*

Dean’s back in the driver’s seat, Sam’s riding shotgun, and Cas is asleep in the back, his hand wrapped in bandages and his head pillowed on Dean’s bunched up jacket.

In the front, the Winchesters are arguing.

“How about for once we don’t heap this shit at Bobby’s front door,” Dean snaps, and it’s not a question. “We’ve gotta head back to Michigan, see if there’s something we might’ve missed in that alley.”

“I don’t know. We need a chance to regroup, do some research––” Sam protests.

“Research what, Sammy? Homeopathic remedies for angelic menopause?”

“Dude, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” Dean growls. “We’re going to Michigan.”

The quiet stretches out between them. Dean would crank up the radio, but he doesn’t want to wake Cas––Cas who’s shifting in the backseat, making small pained noises and furrowing his brow, turning his head to bury his face in Dean’s jacket.

“Dean.” Sam speaks his name softly, trying to coax his attention back from the rearview mirror and Cas, squirming and wrecked and dreaming in the back. 

“What?” And he hates the way he snaps, because this isn’t Sam’s fault––Sam is just trying to help––but he’s as irrational now as though he were losing his own brother.

Sam takes a deep breath. “More angels will come.” 

Dean shakes his head. “Cas’ll handle ‘em. He handled those assholes back there.”

“That fight almost killed him, Dean.” Again Sam breathes, his own eyes darting up to the rearview, to watch Cas writhe against some unseen, relentless force. Dean steals a glance at his brother, and the pain and regret and doubt in Sam’s eyes is a grim comfort, because it means this is as hard for Sam to watch as it is for Dean. “He’s getting worse.”

“Yeah, and if the angels can track Cas, they can track us,” Dean grumbles, rubs at his face. “I get it, I do––he’s a liability...”

“No.” The sudden vehemence in Sam’s voice, the anger and certainty behind his words makes Dean jump. Sam shakes his head, balls his hands into fists. “He’s our friend.”

Dean releases a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and nods––blinks hard a couple times, because shit, of all the stupid things to make him well up––

Then Cas screams––screams like he’s watching the world end, and he arches up off the seat and grabs at his head, his knuckles going white with the force he digs his fingers into his scalp.

Dean almost loses control. “Shit, Cas?” he tries, but there’s other traffic on the road, now, and he can’t just go veering from lane to lane.

But Sam’s on it, clambering awkwardly into the back with Castiel and grabbing at his wrists, trying to pull his hands away from his head. “Cas,” he’s saying, “Cas what’s wrong?”

And a glance in the rearview shows blood under Castiel’s nails, running through the long lines of his hands, darkening his already ink black hair.

And even sick Cas is still stronger than Sam, jerks his hands away and buries his face in them––digs his nails in and the blood just spills out around his hairline, down over his face.

At the first opportunity, Dean pulls over––jumps out of the car, ignoring the few passing vehicles that slow down to look like they’ve stumbled upon a bad wreck. He throws open the back door, but Sam’s still struggling with Castiel and the angel is pushing his fingers into his eyes and crying out from deep in his chest.

Sam shoots Dean a look, and Dean knows without having to be told––runs around to the trunk and rips it open, digs around through their gear––digs out the sturdy leather cuffs, padded with sheep’s wool––stares at them for a beat, because when he took them off Sam at the end of another detox, he swore it was the last time he would ever, ever use them.

“Dean!” Sam shouts in the back, urgent, snapping him back to reality.

He joins his brother in the back seat, and together they drag down Castiel’s arms, pull them taut behind his back and it’s not the crying and the blood that turns Dean’s gut, it’s the knowledge that there’s no way the cuffs he’s buckling tight around Castiel’s wrists should be able to restrain the angel.

But the moment Dean touches Cas, he quiets, and when Dean locks the cuffs Cas only pulls on them once before slumping forward into Dean’s arms, his tears falling more quietly.

Dean can’t help it––can’t help the way he wraps his arms tight around the angel, not when Cas is pressing against him like he wants to somehow merge with Dean’s flesh, somehow be a part of him. Dean shoots a desperate, agonized look over the top of Castiel’s head to Sam, and his brother is looking at him with despair to match.

Neither brother speaks. Sam climbs out of the back, closes the door as softly as he can and takes over the driver’s seat.

They pull back onto the road and Dean holds Cas, holds him because he’s still twitching in quiet suffering and the blood in his hair and on his face soaks into Dean’s shirt, burns against his skin. And even though he doesn’t want to think it, Dean knows.

They are well and truly fucked.


	7. Chapter 7

Every mile is like the long, slow peel of flesh from his bones. After a while Dean can’t take it anymore, can’t take the way Cas leans against him, every now and then twisting his wrists in the cuffs and sighing like he’s relieved they’re still there.

But mostly Dean can’t handle the way Castiel trusts him. Cas saw him at his worst, in Hell, and he knows what Dean is capable of––must know the way this affects him, stirs up hideous desires and images of just what Dean could do with the angel weak and restrained.

So he tells Sam to pull over. Dean ejects his brother from the driver’s seat, orders him to get some rest as he takes over behind the wheel. Sam doesn’t argue, but for a moment it looks like he might––that moment when he glances to the rearview and sees Cas curled up in the back, alone with his suffering. Sam has been there––he gets it––and a part of him wants to tell Dean to get back there and comfort his angel, but Sam doesn’t have to say anything––Dean can see it all there on his brother’s face.

*

It takes them a while to find the right alley, because in this part of Michigan all the buildings have that same rundown, abandoned look to them. But they know when they’ve got the right place because Cas sits up and stares out the window like he’s trying to remember something.

Dean parks on the street at the mouth of the alley, grabs his gun out of the glove compartment and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. “Stay here,” he says, the door already open and his foot on the pavement.

Sam switches into bitch overdrive. “Dean––”

“Someone has to stay with Cas,” Dean cuts him off, then sighs, rubs at the back of his neck. “Please?”

And Sam relents, but he doesn’t look happy about it as he slouches down in the passenger seat.

Dean starts down the alley. He doesn’t look back, but he can feel Cas staring at him, willing him not to go. “I’ve gotta, Cas,” Dean whispers, knowing somehow the angel will hear him. “I’ve gotta find a way to fix this.”

But there’s nothing particularly noteworthy about the alley. It’s dark and wet and dirty and debris crowds up against the weathered brick walls of the buildings to either side.

The art of tracking, Dean knows, is the ability to notice things out of place. That’s why he stops at the door in the deep corner, glances over the patch of ground cleared where the door has scraped open and shut. His gaze lingers on the doorknob—clean, smooth and warm like someone’s just given it a turn.

“Fuck it,” Dean mutters, draws his gun and pushes the door open.

From the looks of the interior, the building was some sort of factory—windows high up on the walls spill grimy patches of light—disused machinery like complex devices of torture hunker in the center of the room. Dean inches around them, eyes in the shadows, looking for movement, tracks in the dust thick on the floor, any sort of sign at all, but there’s nothing. The place is quiet and dead and he should give up on it, move on because he can’t afford to waste time when Castiel’s is fast running out.

Then he sees the stairs, steel grated, leading up. They’re heavy with the dust that hangs everywhere, black with soot and grime, except for the handrail—the handrail that’s been rubbed clean, like someone trailed unwary fingers through the dirt.

And Dean knows that he shouldn’t go up there—he should go back to the car, grab Sam and whatever weapons they can carry, because whatever’s up there didn’t leave any footprints. Whatever’s up there doesn’t want to be found. 

But Dean doesn’t think, Dean does. He presses forward, footsteps feather light on the stairs, his weight resting on the balls of his feet. The gun is cool in his hands and there’s a circulation of air, a faint breeze that blows down from the upper level. And it’s dark up there—dark like there are no windows, so he pauses for a moment, perfectly still, one hand dipped down to help him balance on the edge of the steps while his eyes adjust.

There is light—not much, just a faint glow that reminds him of a motel room at night—but it’s enough. Dean’s gaze sweeps the floor, sweeps the ceiling, peels the shadows out of every corner, but there’s even less to see than downstairs. He straightens, advances one step at a time into the upper level, sticking close to the wall, inching toward the windows that have been draped with moldy sheets.

He catches the frayed edge of the cloth, gives it a tug, and the receding daylight falls drunkenly into the room.

And now Dean sees everything—sees the thick chain hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room—sees a trap that sure as hell isn’t designed to hold demons drawn on the floor beneath it—sees the ring of sigils, painted in blood on the walls.

The gun falls to his side as understanding creeps up through his gut and into his chest. “Sammy,” he breathes, and then he’s running—tearing across the room, taking the steps three at a time, dodging jutting pieces of metal on the first floor and bursting out into the alley.

The Impala’s where he left it, parked on the street, but he’s still running because there’s a familiar electricity in the air as telltale as the smell of sulfur. 

The car is empty, the doors left open. Dean utters a litany of curses, circles around to the driver’s side—

––and there’s Sam, leaning against the side of the car, blood under his nose and a bruise already forming on the side of his face.

Dean chokes his brother’s name, falls to a crouch beside him, but Sam’s pushing him away.

“I’m fine.” Sam spits a string of blood that says otherwise. “It was Zachariah. He took Cas.”

“Fuck!” Dean punches the side of the car without thinking, but the sting in his knuckles feels good. When he speaks, he can’t keep the despair out of his voice. “We brought Cas right to him.”

“Zachariah hasn’t taken him back to Heaven,” Sam rationalizes, looking for hope where there should be none.

“No,” Dean agrees, “he didn’t.”

Then he’s stalking back to the alley.

“Dean, wait!” Sam takes a step, grabs at his brother’s arm, but Dean throws him off.

“I’m not leaving him, Sam!” he yells—cringes at the hitch in his own voice. “I can’t leave him.”

Sam sets his jaw. “I know.” He turns back to the Impala—digs under the front passenger seat and finally pulls out an angel ice pick. “I’m coming with you.”

Dean doesn’t respond, just turns and leads the way down the alley. His heart is clenching in his chest and something’s pushing behind his eyes and he thinks now might be a good time to tell Sammy he loves him, because there’s a very good chance they’re not walking away from this one.

But he doesn’t say anything, just holds his brother’s gaze for a moment before they push the door to the warehouse open.

The lower level looks the same as Dean left it. He nods toward the stairs and Sam falls in behind him, watching the corners and the dark places.

He hears voices leaking from the top of the stairs—recognizes the tone, but not the words. 

Alistair had used that tone.

Then he hears Castiel’s voice, rough and broken and pitched in something like a plea.

Then there’s a scream the likes of which Dean has only heard in Hell.

He bolts up the stairs, doesn’t care if Sam is behind him anymore, just knows that sound is more than pain, it’s anguish and despair and surrender. Please Cas, don’t, he thinks. Don’t give in.

Dean bursts recklessly out of the stairwell, gun drawn, looking for something to kill. And then he sees Cas––

––Cas, with his hands still bound behind his back, the chain dangling from the ceiling hooked between the cuffs, pulling and twisting his arms at a sick, unnatural angle.

––Cas, off balance, toes scraping desperately over the floor in a vain effort to take his weight off his shoulders.

––Cas, with thin streaks of blood trickling from his nose and a collar around his throat.

And it hits Dean like a shock of déjà vu, like maybe he’s seen this in a dream.

“Dean. Good of you to join us.”

He whirls at the sound of Zachariah’s voice. The bastard leans against the wall, casual, hands tucked in his pockets and a little smile on his face. Dean keeps his eyes locked on him, doesn’t let his gaze so much as flicker to Sam, sneaking up from the side, angel spike pointed out.

Sam gets close—so close—but it’s only because Zachariah is playing with him. A glance sends Sam flying backwards, crashing against the far wall, the impact bringing dust down from the rafters. He still has his grip on the dagger—starts to push himself up, but Zachariah clucks his tongue. “Careful, boy,” he chides. “There’s no reason I shouldn’t kill you.”

Dean shoots his brother a look, and for once, Sam stays down.

Castiel cries out again, hoarse and strangled. Dean stares, uncomprehending, as the skin of Castiel’s chest flushes pink, then blisters, and then burns as though a red-hot brand were pressed over his heart.

“Stop it!” Dean turns to face Zachariah again. Somehow, he keeps his voice steady. “Let him down.”

And Zachariah’s smiling a little wider, now, like he’s in on a joke and it’s so very hard to hold back laughter. He shrugs a little, rocks on his heels. “I’m sorry, Dean—I can’t do that.”

Dean takes a threatening step toward him. “Why not?” he growls. “You looking to make a deal, asshole?”

“Not at all,” Zachariah replies. “I can’t stop it because I’m not doing it.”

“Like hell you’re not!” Sam spits from his corner, earning him a reproachful glance from Zachariah.

“Mind your manners, boy, or I’ll send you outside.”

Castiel’s choking. Dean turns back to him, takes a step like he’s going to cut his angel down, but then he sees the truth in Zachariah’s words.

The burn over Castiel’s heart takes the shape of a hand print.

“I must admit,” Zachariah says as he steps up beside Dean, “we were at a loss for a punishment befitting Castiel’s disobedience.”

The chain that holds Cas suspended tightens, pulling his arms higher until his toes don’t even brush the floor. He gasps for air, suffocating under his own weight.

Zachariah tilts his head as though admiring the view. “Then it came to me,” he goes on. “Castiel rebelled for you, Dean; who better to break him than you?”

The chain abruptly drops Castiel to his knees, but it comes with a sick crack and Castiel’s howl as the jolt dislocates both shoulders.

“Cas!” Dean tries to go to him, but he hits a wall—spins back to Zachariah and aims his gun. “Let me through.”

“Or what, you’ll shoot me?” Zachariah snorts. “You know that will accomplish nothing.”

Dean cocks the hammer. “Could be good for a laugh.”

Zachariah’s gaze flickers over Dean’s shoulder, fixes on Castiel, and Dean can’t stop himself—looks back in time to see two bloody trenches gouged between his angel’s shoulders.

Dean shakes his head, whispers, “No,” because this he remembers, this he has dreamed.

“Oh, yes.” Zachariah’s voice is right there in his ear. “All your secret desires...all your dark, dark fantasies, and the dreams you try to forget...you brought a little bit of Hell back with you, Dean. And it wants this. All I had to do was ensure a...meeting of the minds.”

Zachariah’s words are like a knife in Dean’s gut, disemboweling, but they don’t come close to the mewling sound Castiel makes as some invisible hands strip the flesh from his back. “Make it stop,” Dean hisses, because he can’t bear that sound––can’t bear the way it goes straight to his groin and makes his cock twitch because he’s not like that, he’s not like Alistair––

“I already told you, Dean––I can’t,” Zachariah shrugs. “It’s your subconscious will. You can’t fight it.”

“Dean!” Sam calls to him from across the room. “Dean, it’s not real––”

But the blood pooling beneath Castiel sure looks real, and the soft gasp as he fights for consciousness sounds real, and the sudden stab of desire in Dean’s belly when Castiel rolls impossible blue eyes in his direction is definitely real.

“It’s going to get worse,” Zachariah promises. “That darkness is going to get bigger, and stronger, and you won’t be able to resist it because Hell is in you.”

“Don’t listen to him––” Sam shouts, but his voice sounds thin and far away.

And there’s this weird pulsing in his head and suddenly Dean’s dizzy, suddenly he’s sinking down to his knees and laying his palms flat on the floor and trying not to lean toward Castiel like a dog impatient for its food.

But he fights it, closes his eyes tight and grits his teeth and bows his head to the floor because he knows, above all else––the man he was in Hell must never walk the Earth.

“...Dean...”

It’s Castiel’s voice, trembling, full of cracks, and Dean can’t resist the urge to look up at his beautiful, broken angel––to see the way his arms sit awkwardly in his shoulders, the way the muscle is laid bare on his back, the throbbing hand print scorched above his heart. And then there are his eyes––eyes that have always seen through him, to his core, to the evil that lay there waiting to awake. And still those eyes shine bright with unconditional love.

Dean deserves worse than Hell.

Zachariah crouches beside him, lays his hand on Dean’s back. “Say yes,” he murmurs like a lullaby. “Say yes, and all the darkness will burn away.”

He hears Sam, far away, screaming, but he can’t make out the words. All he sees is the ruin of Castiel’s body and the darkness pushing in on all sides––all he knows is that he wants to throw himself at the sun and burn up in its molten atmosphere. 

All he has to do is say yes.

But then Castiel lifts his gaze to the heavens and cries like a lost child, “Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in praelio!”

And then there is light––beautiful, blinding light––and Dean throws back his head to revel in its heat.

When it passes, Castiel is looking at him. There’s a moment when Dean can’t breathe because Castiel’s eyes are different, darker, but then the links in the chain that hold his arms break apart, throw sparks and bolts of electricity, and Castiel stands, snapping the link between the cuffs on his wrists.

Behind Dean, Zachariah staggers, gasps, “Michael!”

The whole building shudders at the sound of the archangel’s name––the archangel standing before Dean in another angel’s broken vessel. Michael rolls his shoulders, popping the dislocated joints back into place, and even as Dean watches the burn is shriveling up on his chest.

“Zachariah,” Michael says, and it’s not Castiel’s voice, it’s fucking thunder.

And Zachariah’s backpedaling, whispering placating words that only make Michael’s brows draw together in a frown. Zachariah makes a sound akin to a squeak, and then he’s gone, escaped on the rustle of feathers.

Michael snorts. “That’s what I thought.”

Dean’s staring at him––staring at Michael in Castiel’s body which is actually Jimmy Novak’s body and Dean’s getting dizzy again trying to understand why pinpoints of light are bursting through Castiel’s pores, like his skin is barely holding together.

Michael crouches before him, lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, fits it perfectly over the scar. “You will say yes, Dean,” he says. “But you will say yes for the right reasons.”

Then there is the light again, white like a void, and Michael is gone. Castiel falls forward against Dean, his body limp but the wounds on his back finally healing.

But Dean can’t touch him. He just stares down at him as Sam comes running over, shouting their names, because what he thought was a leather collar around Castiel’s neck was Dean’s amulet all along.

*

They find a house in escrow on the outskirts of town, set back far enough from the road that neighbors won’t notice its new occupants right away. Dean doesn’t bother trying to pick the lock––just busts the window with his elbow and opens the door from the inside. The house is furnished, has running water and electricity, and Sam picks up a faint wireless signal on his computer. They’re practically living in the lap of luxury.

No one tries to talk.

Dean locks himself in one of the guest rooms, leaving Sam to help Castiel get settled in the master bedroom.

There’s a king sized tempur-pedic mattress, and Sam tries to explain to Castiel that it’s probably the best mattress on the planet, but Castiel doesn’t like its stillness or the way it shapes around his body. He insists he doesn’t need to sleep, tries to offer it to Sam, but the younger Winchester will hear none of it. He leaves Castiel with an order to rest and disappears somewhere in the house.

Castiel switches off the light from across the room, but he doesn’t lie down. He sits on the edge of the bed, letting his grace open up in him, letting it stretch out like a creature long caged. The air around him pulses with the energy of the cosmos.

It’s only later that Castiel realizes he’s sucked Dean’s amulet into his mouth.

4 AM comes and he slips into Jimmy’s clothes like he once slipped into this vessel. He could go from here––just disappear without the risk of waking Dean or of running into an ever watchful Sam, leave without the questions and the words he’s unsure how to speak. But he doesn’t want to.

Castiel descends the stairs quietly, following the dim glow of light to the kitchen where Sam sits at the table, his computer open before him. The screen is black.

Sam sits up when he sees Castiel––takes in the trench coat, and the emotionless mask, and seems to understand. “Are you sure you’re okay to take off by yourself?” he asks gently. “What if you relapse?”

“Dean’s subconscious and my own awareness no longer overlap,” Castiel assures him.

Sam nods, but when he doesn’t look away, Castiel knows he’s not done. “You called for Michael,” he whispers. “And he...went into you. How is that possible?”

Castiel tries not to sigh. He pulls out a chair and sits across from Sam. “Jimmy is gone,” he explains. “For all intents and purposes, this is an empty vessel.”

“But it’s not,” Sam insists. “You’re in there.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “I now understand the symbiotic nature of the relationship from the vessel’s perspective.”

Sam blinks.

“If Michael had stayed in this body any longer, it would have killed me.”

And that’s something Sam can wrap his head around. He nods, runs his fingers back through his hair. 

A long silence stretches between them, but it’s familiar, comfortable. 

After a while, Sam looks up from the table and smiles. “It’s good to have you back, Cas,” he says.

Castiel tries to return the smile, for Sam, but it makes his face feel tight. “It’s good to be back,” he agrees.

In the hallway, a clock strikes 5 AM.

Castiel has lingered too long.

*

In his dream, Dean is in Hell.

He doesn’t fight it. This is where he belongs.


End file.
